


no distance and no sound

by queerwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwatson/pseuds/queerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was only standing in front of Mark, pointing a gun at him, that John wondered if she could have planned ahead a bit more.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	no distance and no sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendlaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendlaa/gifts).



It was only standing in front of Mark, pointing a gun at him, that John wondered if she could have planned ahead a bit more. She hadn’t needed to read that flash drive to know that Mark had killed people. Killed people for money. Assassins didn’t just kill bad people, assassins weren’t just people who went into the army to try and please their da - assassins were hit men. They killed for money, for hire. She didn’t want or need to know exactly how her trust had been betrayed - she only needed to know that Mark had shot Sherlock. And not just shot her, killed her, momentarily. Her heart had stopped on the operating table. The doctors had told John after the fact. Even beyond that, he’d threatened to kill her again, not knowing it was actually John on the other side of the gun.

John had known for a long time she was going to leave Mark Morstan. She just hadn’t wanted it to come to this. But she also wasn’t about to let him get anywhere near Sherlock again. Ever again. Sherlock had invited him to Christmas, so John had lulled him into a state of complacency, watched him cry, pretended to forgive him - but she’d known that as soon as everything was a bit more settled, after the Magnussen case was over, she was going to leave him for good.

She hadn’t really told Sherlock yet. It didn’t really seem to matter. Sherlock had been busy, had been struggling with things of her own. Plus... John wasn’t certain, really, that Sherlock wanted someone else in Baker Street again. Maybe she’d gotten used to living on her own. Although she’d clearly been absolutely terrible at taking care of herself.

She tried to push thoughts of Sherlock from her mind - she’d tried to do that as soon as she’d sat Mark down to talk to him. As soon as she said she wanted to get a divorce, though, he started asking if she’d be going back to Baker Street. Started pushing buttons, started using it against her, all the things she’d told him while Sherlock had been dead and while she’d trusted him.

She shouted. He shouted. He moved towards her, clearly planning to strike, and she pulled out her gun.

There she stood now. Her gun was warm in her hand from where she’d kept it at the small of her back through the whole conversation and the heat of her body had bled into it.

He was still. At least for now.

“Don’t move,” she added, just in case.

She wondered if maybe she could have told Mycroft, told Sherlock. Told Lestrade, even, to have some kind of backup waiting. She didn’t. Instead, she was alone, pointing her gun at the man that was technically her husband.

“Put your hands on the table,” she said sharply. He smirked at her as he did it, and she stepped further back.

He laughed, then, and she was strong enough to keep herself from wincing. “You think Sherlock would take you back if you kill me? But then again I guess you’d just be a pair of murderers. And you still both think you’re so much better than me...”

John cocked the gun and narrowed her eyes. “She is nothing like you. You don’t even deserve to talk about her - and besides, if I did kill you, you’d deserve it. So just keep your mouth shut.”

There was only a moment as she saw his hand edging under the table, and that moment was all she needed to react. She took her aim, and pulled the trigger. She shot him in the arm - it knocked him to the ground, and she went over and put a foot on his chest to look under the table - there was a gun there. He’d stored it just in case. Stupid. She should have checked.

She’d thought he wouldn’t be much of a threat when he’d just been shot and she still had her gun trained on him, but he grabbed her ankle, and before he could pull it out from under her, John shot him again. This time in the head.

He’d still yanked right as she shot, and she ended up on the ground, next to him. She could smell the blood, feel the heat of him, still, next to her. She pushed and stood up almost immediately, and looked down at his body.

He was dead. Well and truly dead. Disgustingly dead. She turned away, and pulled out her phone. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but completely steady as she dialed.

Overly calm and completely rational, she called Mycroft first. She told the other woman what had happened, and Mycroft said she could have people there to take care of it. It could be proved self-defense easily, but John didn’t want to have to deal with it. There was blood in her hair. On her shirt. She wanted to shower, and change, and go to Baker Street as quickly as she could. She didn’t want to be in a cold empty house anymore. She wanted to go home.

Once the call to Mycroft was through, she called Sherlock. The fact that it was a call was apparently strange enough to make her answer right away.

“John? What’s going on?”

“Mark’s dead.” Her voice sounded off, slightly. She wasn’t crying, she had no reason to. But having killed someone she’d once thought she might spend the rest of her life with, even if she’d known she was settling - it was a lot to take in.

“Dead?”

“...I killed him. I told him I was leaving, and he started threatening, so I pulled my gun and then he... He had a gun under the table. He would have killed me.”

The other end of the phone was silent, and John almost did cry then. That one moment of silence was enough for her to wonder if Mark had a point. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have her back.

“You’re alright?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet.

“I... Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I mean I’m... a bit of a mess, there’s still... I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“He didn’t hurt you?”

John laughed, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “Not physically, no.”

“Good. That’s good. I mean not that... Not to say it’s good that you had to kill him or that he’s dead...”

John almost went weak with relief. She did laugh, only slightly hysterically. “No, no, you can definitely say that. If anyone can, it’s you.”

When Sherlock spoke again, John could hear that she was smiling. It was lovely. “You shouldn’t giggle at crime scenes.”

John laughed, and Sherlock laughed with her. For a moment, all the awful bits of the situation fell away. It was just the two of them, completely safe. She hadn’t realized just how much Sherlock’s voice would put her at ease. It was nice.

Once they’d stopped, John remembered the blood on her clothes. “I need to... I want to get cleaned up but I was wondering, could I... You can say no, but it would be possible for me to come back to Baker Street? At least-”

She’d meant to say “at least for tonight,” to give Sherlock the opportunity to tell her that she couldn’t just move back in, but Sherlock cut her off with an immediate “Yes.” There was a pause, and Sherlock cleared her throat. “I mean. Of course. Your old room is still there. Everything’s open. Your chair’s back, you know that. Still plenty of room, if you’d like to move back in.”

John closed her eyes, and pressed her face a little closer to her phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I would love to move back in. Thank you.”

“For what?”

John blinked, and opened her eyes again. Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean for what?”

“What are you thanking me for? There’s no reason to thank me. I... Baker Street is really still half yours, it always was.”

“You moved my chair.” The words were more vulnerable than John had intended, and she swallowed immediately after, then tried to speak again quickly, to cover up. “I mean, you... You were gone for so long, and then I was gone because I couldn’t be there and then I was trying to stay with Mark, I just... I thought maybe you’d get used to living there on your own. Use my room as a lab or something. Maybe you’d prefer it that way.”

“You think I would prefer living in Baker Street alone?” The words sounded completely incredulous - like the idea had never crossed Sherlock’s mind. Not for the first time, John wondered if part of what Sherlock had been struggling with was John’s absence - but it seemed a self-absorbed thought.

“I just... wondered sometimes. I wasn’t sure.” John paused, and licked her lips. She tasted blood, and spit it out immediately, the sense that she urgently needed to shower returning. “Sherlock, look, I... I’ll be back at Baker Street tonight, yeah? I’ll bring pyjamas. But I need to clean up first.”

“Of course, that will be-” Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John stopped where she’d started walking towards the bathroom.

“What is it?”

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, then cleared her throat delicately. “I actually... I’d forgotten Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been cleaning your bedroom. And she stored some things there. I told her... Well it’s. Never mind. You can have my bed, though, I can sleep on the couch.”

“What? It’s your bed, if someone should be on the couch, it’s me. It’s only one night-”

“One night is bad enough for your shoulder.”

John knew that Sherlock was right. She had an idea, but flushed a little to think of it. “We could always just share the bed. We’re two grown women, and it’s only one night. Your bed is well beyond big enough for both of us.”

She felt like she could practically feel Sherlock’s awkwardness through the phone. Just as soon as she was about to take her offer back, Sherlock replied. “Yes. Alright. That should be fine.”

For a moment, John let herself think about curling up in bed with Sherlock, pressing close to her, feeling comfortable and at ease and happy. Then she shook the thought, and sighed. “Right. Good. I should go and clean up, then, and pack, before your sister’s people get here to... Finish cleaning up.”

They exchanged their goodbyes, and John went to get herself together. She thought of doing some sort of preparation for going back to 221b somehow, steeling herself for being there with Sherlock again or steeling herself to leave the terrible house she’d been trapped in, but no plan for either idea came to mind. Instead she just showered, got all the blood off, put her hair up, and got dressed in jeans and a comfortable sweater. She waited in the bedroom until she heard people at the door, then let in Mycroft and her people and got clearance to leave and head for 221b in just the form of a nod and Mycroft stepping out of her way.

A cab took her straight to 221b, but the sight of it made her heart push oddly to one side in her chest. Finally she was back. Mark was dead, Sherlock was safe, everything was settled. Things could go back to how she’d always wanted. Everything was in place. Feeling so weightless was really its own kind of burden - she felt like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to inevitably stop her again.

She went to the door, unlocked it, and went up. Sherlock was there, in the sitting room. Oddly, she was standing by the table, toying with something with her fingers.

John cleared her throat. Sherlock looked up at her, her eyes a little wide, almost surprised, and John suddenly couldn’t help herself. She put down her bag and crossed the room as quickly as she could, pulling Sherlock into a hug. John heard the air go out of Sherlock, but before she could pull away in concern, Sherlock had placed a hand gently on her back. Still, feeling guilty, she shook her head slightly. “Sorry,” John murmured.

Sherlock shook her head, too - John could feel it, felt Sherlock’s chin brush her head. “It’s fine. This is... fine,” Sherlock said. Her other arm went around John’s waist, so for the first time they were actually, properly hugging.

John made a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned slightly against Sherlock. “It’s hard to believe it’s all over. That I get to just... leave and come back here. That it’s all done. All the faking and pretending and being constantly afraid of him. It’s all just over. Just like that.”

“You... wanted to leave him? For that long?”

John looked up at Sherlock, frowning. “You thought I wanted to stay with him? After he shot you?”

She watched as Sherlock opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her expression looked embarrassed.

It seemed like now was a good time for John to at least try to make things clear. Clearer. “Sherlock, I... I never should have married Mark. I never should have said yes to his proposal. I was just trying to find a way to be less miserable while I was on my own. But once you were back, I never should have... I should have left him a long time ago. Then he never would have had the opportunity to hurt you.”

“You regret not leaving sooner just because he hurt me?”

“I regret not leaving sooner because I should have just been here. I wanted to be here.” John watched Sherlock blink, noting that her expression looked a lot like the one John had seen when she’d asked Sherlock to be her maid of honour at the wedding.

She could see the way Sherlock hesitated, even though there was clearly something she wanted to say. After a moment of John waiting, with her head tilted, Sherlock said it. “But you... wanted a husband. And a family.”

John licked her lips. They’d officially edged into dangerous territory - but John was determined to push forward anyways. She was tired of hiding. “I wanted to be here more. I always wanted to be here more. I was... settling for what I thought I could have.”

There was another long pause before Sherlock finally just said, “Oh.”

John knew that she hadn’t communicated anything overtly romantic. She was nervous, still. She didn’t want to lose this now that she was so close again. “We could... talk about this tomorrow, if you want.”

A chance to put it off. To forget about it entirely, if Sherlock wanted that. But John needed some sort of sign before she poured her heart out.

“No, no, you don’t have to...” Sherlock’s hand moved to the upper part of John’s arm, resting there. Holding. They were still half embracing. “I don’t understand why. If you could... explain?”

That was it, then. She couldn’t lie now. She could deflect, or she could tell the truth. Her only hope was that Sherlock had started to figure it out and was asking because she was hoping for a particular answer - really John thought she caught a glimpse of something hopeful in Sherlock’s expression, but she was still afraid that she was seeing what she wanted to see. John looked down, her eyes on Sherlock’s pyjama top instead of on her face. “I... wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. However you’d let me. The way things were before... That was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. When you came back, I was just... still feeling unsteady. I wasn’t sure where I stood anymore. If you really needed my help. It seemed like you didn’t, since you’d been off on your own so long, doing whatever you were doing. But I always wanted to be here with you.”

“However I’d let you?” Sherlock’s voice was small, and John looked up to see her looking incredibly vulnerable - as vulnerable as John had ever seen her. “There are... You wouldn’t mind some other way, then? Other than just... What would you want?”

John shook her head. “Nothing you don’t want.”

Sherlock blinked, and tilted her head forward, and suddenly the two of them were incredibly close. John inhaled sharply. “And if I... wanted something?”

“Whatever you want,” John said softly.

Sherlock leaned forward again, then hesitated. Her eyes rested on John’s lips, though, so John took the sign she’d finally been given and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock.

It started as one chaste press of lips against lips, and John pulled back and then pressed in again, letting her lips shift against Sherlock’s, lingering deliberately. That was when Sherlock started to hesitantly kiss back, and even though her inexperience was clear, it was endearing. It was lovely and calm and comfortable and sweet to stand there kissing Sherlock, their lips moving together until finally Sherlock pulled away with a quiet, wet sound. In the silence of the flat, it made John lick her lips.

John opened her eyes, and found Sherlock already looking at her. She smiled, and Sherlock smiled back. “Is that all you want?” she asked teasingly. Sherlock blushed bright red, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. She pressed a kiss to one pinked cheekbone, just because she could. “I’m teasing. We can figure all that out later.” She tightened her arms around Sherlock to pull her close again, and Sherlock pressed her face against John’s chest, and this time held her just as tightly. They stood there for a while, with John toying with Sherlock’s curls. Then John yawned, and she moved her hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, thumb shifting gently against her skin. “You’ll have to let go of me at least long enough that I can change into my pyjamas and we can get to the bed.”

“Surely you can sleep standing up,” Sherlock muttered, and John laughed. Sherlock stood up to her full height to look at John and grin. “I won’t make you. You’re right. We can... ah. Continue in bed. Just... Just the. Holding.”

“I know what you meant.” John leaned up to kiss her on the forehead, then slowly moved away from Sherlock to go and get her bag and fish out her pyjamas. She heard Sherlock walk to the bedroom, and then she went to the bathroom, changed, and went in to the bedroom find Sherlock already lying in bed waiting for her.

Sherlock was resting her head on her hand, propped up on her elbow and the pillows. She was looking at John, and smiling just slightly. She had on her pyjama t-shirt, her dressing gown having been shed and left hanging on the door, the rest of her under the covers. The image was so utterly domestic, and so everything that John had longed for that John had to pause for a moment to appreciate it and to just stare, entirely fond. She knew there was a ridiculously soppy sort of expression on her face, but she didn’t even try to hide it. She was happy.

She watched as Sherlock blushed slightly, and then she made her way over to the bed and slid under the covers. John worried for a moment things would be awkward, but instead Sherlock immediately squirmed around under the covers until her arm was around John’s waist, her head was on John’s chest, and their legs were completely intertwined. Now that she had John’s permission, apparently Sherlock wasn’t going to be apprehensive about cuddling. It was perfect.

Belatedly, Sherlock lifted her head, still flushed, and asked. “Is this an alright position? I’ve noticed you tend to sleep on your back. Yes?”

John nodded, and smiled. “Yes. This is perfect.” She kissed Sherlock’s head, then started to gently play with her curls again. “And this is... We can do this every night, yeah? I don’t need to move back into my old room, unless you want me to. And we could be... together. Properly.”

She felt Sherlock tense almost immediately, but then Sherlock sat up slightly to look at John, her expression almost unreadable. “I would... Yes. Yes. I would like that very much.”

A smile spread over John’s face, and she leaned up, too, just enough to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Alright,” she murmured. She laid back down, and Sherlock did too.

After a long time, when John had almost drifted off, she heard Sherlock say quietly, “I love you.”

She blinked, tightened the arm she’d put around Sherlock’s waist, and said quietly back, “I love you, too.”

John did fall asleep after that, completely at ease.

**Author's Note:**

> can you believe i wrote a fic for my girlfriend for valentine's day in which there is murder. anyways. i hope everyone enjoyed. whether or not sherlock was lying about john's bedroom not being usable is up to you.


End file.
